“Is that so?” said John Gooch. “Well, let me tell you that I wasn’t goggling wantonly. I was studying her psychology for a series of stories which I am preparing, entitled ‘Madeline Monk, Murderess.’ ”
Frederick Pilcher held out his hand.
“I wronged you, John,” he said. “However, be that as it may, the point is that we both appear to be up against it very hard. An extraordinarily well-developed man, that fellow McMurdo.”
“A mass of muscle.”
“And of a violent disposition.”
“Dangerously so.”
Frederick Pilcher drew out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.
“You don’t think, John, that you might ultimately come to love Agnes Flack?”
“I do not.”
“Love frequently comes after marriage, I believe.”
“So does suicide.”
“Then it looks to me,” said Frederick Pilcher, “as if one of us was for it. I see no way out of playing that match.”
“Nor I.”
“The growing tendency on the part of the modern girl to read trashy magazine stories,” said Frederick Pilcher, severely, “is one that I deplore. I view it with alarm. And I wish to goodness that you authors wouldn’t write tales about men who play golf matches for the hand of a woman.”
“Authors must live,” said John Gooch. “How is your game these days, Frederick?”
“Improved, unfortunately. I am putting better.”
“I am steadier off the tee.” John Gooch laughed bitterly. “When I think of the hours of practice I have put in, little knowing that a thing of this sort was in store for me, I appreciate the irony of life. If I had not bought Sandy McHoots’ book last spring, I might now be in a position to be beaten five and four.”
“Instead of which, you will probably win the match on the twelfth.”
John Gooch started.
“You can’t be as bad as that!”
“I shall be on Friday.”
“You mean to say you aren’t going to try?”
“I do.”
“You have sunk to such depths that you would deliberately play below your proper form?”
“I have.”
“Pilcher,” said John Gooch, coldly, “you are a hound, and I never liked you from the start.”
You would have thought that, after the conversation which I have just related, no depth of low cunning on the part of Frederick Pilcher would have had the power to surprise John Gooch. And yet, as he saw the other come out of the clubhouse to join him on the first tee on the Friday morning, I am not exaggerating when I say that he was stunned.
John Gooch had arrived at the links early, wishing to get in a little practice. One of his outstanding defects as a golfer was a pronounced slice; and it seemed to him that, if he drove off a few balls before the match began, he might be able to analyse this slice and see just what was the best stance to take up in order that it might have full scope. He was teeing his third ball when Frederick Pilcher appeared.
“What—what—what—!” gasped John Gooch.
For Frederick Pilcher, discarding the baggy, mustard-coloured plus-fours in which it was his usual custom to infest the links, was dressed in a perfectly-fitting morning-coat, yellow waistcoat, striped trousers, spats, and patent-leather shoes. He wore a high stiff collar, and on his head was the glossiest top-hat ever seen off the Stock Exchange. He looked intensely uncomfortable; and yet there was on his face a smirk which he made no attempt to conceal.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Why are you dressed like that?” John Gooch uttered an exclamation. “I see it all. You think it will put you off your game.”
“Some idea of the kind did occur to me,” replied Frederick Pilcher, airily.
“You fiend!”
“Tut tut, John. These are hard words to use to a friend.”
“You are no friend of mine.”
“A pity,” said Frederick Pilcher, “for I was hoping that you would ask me to be your best man at the wedding.” He took a club from his bag and swung it. “Amazing what a difference clothes make. You would hardly believe how this coat cramps the shoulders. I feel as if I were a sardine trying to wriggle in its tin.”
The world seemed to swim before John Gooch’s eyes. Then the mist cleared, and he fixed Frederick Pilcher with a hypnotic gaze.
“You are going to play well,” he said, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “You are going to play well. You are going to play well. You—”
“Stop it!” cried Frederick Pilcher.
“You are going to play well. You are going—”
A heavy hand descended on his shoulder. Sidney McMurdo was regarding him with a black scowl.
“We don’t want any of your confounded chivalry,” said Sidney McMurdo. “This match is going to be played in the strictest spirit of—What the devil are you dressed like that for?” he demanded, wheeling on Frederick Pilcher.
“I—I have to go into the City immediately after the match,” said Pilcher. “I shan’t have time to change.”
“H’m. Well, it’s your own affair. Come along,” said Sidney McMurdo, gritting his teeth. “I’ve been told to referee this match, and I don’t want to stay here all day. Toss for the honour, worms.”
John Gooch spun a coin. Frederick Pilcher called tails. The coin fell heads up.
“Drive off, reptile,” said Sidney McMurdo.
As John Gooch addressed his ball, he was aware of a strange sensation which he could not immediately analyse. It was only when, after waggling two or three times, he started to draw his club back that it flashed upon him that this strange sensation was confidence. For the first time in his life he seemed to have no doubt that the ball, well and truly struck, would travel sweetly down the middle of the fairway. And then the hideous truth dawned on him. His subconscious self had totally misunderstood the purport of his recent remarks and had got the whole thing nicely muddled up.
Much has been written of the subconscious self, and all that has been written goes to show that of all the
